Epilogue
by FreedomValentine
Summary: This is an epilogue to a story I have yet to publish since I've started work on it after about five years. Any questions you want to ask about this oneshot you are more than welcome to include in your reviews.


The weather station staff are being kind this afternoon. The wind is still gentle, the light seeping in from the glass atmostphere of their world rich, and as grateful as it should be.

"Why isn't the water moving yet?", comes a tug on his coat.

He looks down, "it will. Soon. Wait and see."

"Can you hold me up, please? I can't see from here."

He leans down with open arms. Maybe, he thinks as his arms fall back from the weight, he shouldn't have brought her. It is embarrassing, and now people look back and again, pointing and whispering. This man is notorious for his child rearing techniques in the neighbourhood, to the point of habituation. In any case, a free show shall be on tonight.

So I brought my kid out for the day, he complains to himself, big deal.

"Pop! Look! The river is flying!"

He flinches. There is no such thing as a river. Not here. Not in this world. Nobody knows what a river was. Nobody ever has. How does she know what a river is? Where did she find this word?

"What river?", he enquires.

Her arms mimic the newborn tide before her. "The river is in front of us! It's going to fly! Look!"

He looks back to the water. It is true. It moves.

He peers into the horizon on his right, adjusting his hold of her. The wind has picked up speed. Or was it velocity? Something inside tells him he should learn what they were quickly. What parent deserves to call himself a parent if a child's answers cannot be given tomorrow? But he turns away from this thought. Speed or velocity- either way, it wouldn't come in handy in the future.

She claps vigorously, moving back and forth in his arms. "Look, Pop, the river is really going up! Look!"

"I know," he replies quietly. He stares at the railing. Eight years have passed and will soon become nine, he reminds himself, time waits for no one. Who told him that? He cannot remember. There is a face, a figure to it, but no detail after. Time is not willing, in any case, to be considerate and wait.

But I am. I wait for you. Still.

"Pop," she tugs on his collar, "Pop, you're not watching, Pop. The river is going up to the sky! Look! Look!"

"There's no river," he whispers, "and there is no sky."

But she doesn't hear him. How could she, it was a whisper. No use crushing her worldview now. She pulls the fabric in her fist even harder. He places her hand away from it, but she returns her hand towards his neck and pulls and pulls till his head sways simultaneously.

He tuts, but she doesn't stop. You're not looking, she insists, watch it with me.

"You will stop ripping my clothes up or I'll drop you to the ground," he commands. She stares back. He narrows his eyes again, preparing.

I told you I'll drop you, he starts. But the words don't come. As he opens his mouth, the river in the sky begins to flow, in the air, and from within the river comes a pebble, generic gray flecks on a lighter stony mound. The pebble floats, descending towards the banks. Nobody, has seen it yet but it is coming, and it has already found a spot. It hits him, on the crown where his hair begins to part. He winces, whimpering. His scalp smarts as the winds begin to settle. The water, floating magnificence just moments ago, comes crashing on to the gravel it lay on. Walls emerge as it comes down, to shield the spectators from what will be their closest encounter to any natural waterfall. But some of the water still comes up, above the fibreglass, and grazes their faces. Everybody laughs, cheering from the thrill.

The droplets stain his face too. But not his eyes. They are stained too, but not with water. The pebble settles on the promenade, wet in the crash of water. She slides away from his grasp as he crawls toward the pebble. Nobody sees him crawling except for his own child who looks on, bewildered, as he cowers before an empty space. She hasn't noticed the pebble, let alone know what it is. She calls out, asking after him, but there is no reply. Nothing is heard.

He huddles, the pebble in his hand. His nose twitches, twitches as he lowers his face, covering his mouth with his arm.

Eight years. Eight long years, but here it was. Finally. He collapses, tired, stroking the walkway. His tears run free. In the hum of the river returning to sleep, everyone is lost.

I'll come back one day. When this piece of the Earth goes to our home and reaches you, take it as a sign that I am nearby, that I will be by your side very soon. If you're lucky, I might be right beside you. And then we might forgive one another and start again.

He swings his head around, mad. Where? Where would he look first? The wind was now gone, its soft aftermath melting away. He empties his pockets, struggling to stand, and reaches out at last for her. Take this and go home, he hurries through his words and presses the metal into her palm. As she places them in her pocket as instructed, he staggers along the path, searching.


End file.
